


Overheard

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 13:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5786188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not everything you overhear about yourself is bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overheard

 

First published in  _Our Favorite Things 19_ (2003)

 

At first he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming.

Even what he’d known were dreams were a little too realistic, the bust-gone-bad playing through his mind over and over like a skipping record: the big blue thing with teeth and a tail that looked like a mace, Egon’s yell when the thing almost sent him over the banister of the mansion they were in, and then as he’d charged up to distract the thing from Egon, the yell of all three of his friends as it turned on him. Then there were just flashes and spinning and the few sharp, blinding crunches of pain as he’d tumbled down the steps. He didn’t much remember anything after that, but his memory cheerfully filled in, rewinding and playing the whole scene again for him.

And then the frantic voices of his friends slowly dissolved into the whispers he heard now, above and around him.

“…even stirred. You sure the doctor…”

“…isn’t in danger, just needs…”

“…as long as he’s sleeping…”

He wasn’t sleeping, was he? But he couldn’t seem to move, just listen and hear.

“I still can’t believe he’s okay. When he fell like that, and he wasn’t moving, and the blood…”

Ray, that was Ray.

“It’s okay, buddy—you know what the doctor said. Those ribs are gonna hurt for a while and so’re all those bruises, but he didn’t even get a concussion.”

Winston’s steady voice.

“I know, I just…it always seems like Peter gets hurt! What if one day…” Ray again, sounding funny.

“Statistically, there is no reason to think Peter has any more chance of getting hurt than the rest of us just because he’s had more injuries in the past.”

Egon, finally, and some part of him relaxed to have all the voices accounted for. Egon was closer, too, almost…above him?

“Yeah, statistically—that’s the problem. Pete’s not playing even odds. You know he’s always running out front, trying to catch the worst of it so we won’t.”

Ray was hushed, hard to hear. “As if he didn’t know if something happened to him, it would be worse than anything else.”

Something inside him winced.

“I’ve talked to him about it before—I don’t believe it’s something he does deliberately. I think it’s simply an imperative to protect. Peter has never taken loss easily.”

Trust Egon to be blunt. But there was a compassion in his voice that pulled the knot inside even tighter. He would have shifted from it but his side ached abysmally and his limbs felt like wood. Sore wood.

“Because of his dad, huh?” Winston sounded sorry for him, and the wince deepened.

“And the loss of his mother. We are his family now—it’s natural for him to want to protect us.”

“Yeah, but, look what happened today! He could’ve gotten hurt a lot worse. Egon, I…I thought he was dead.”

Aw, jeez.

“I know.” Very quietly. Egon could have just as easily said, _Me, too_. And then there was a light brush through his hair, an unabashed caress that was usually reserved for when he was critically injured…or perhaps not awake to feel it. The knot inside moved up into his throat.

“So…what can we do about it?”

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do, Ray, do you, Egon? I mean, it’s not like he’s got a death wish, trying to kill himself or something. Nothing pathological. He just worries about us. Can’t change that without changing Pete.”

“Unfortunately, I believe you’re correct. It is a manifestation of his caring. But perhaps it would be advisable to talk to him again. Perhaps a discussion of strategy, Winston?”           

“You mean, together is safer than with your leader running out ahead of you?” His smile was clear in his voice. “Yeah, I could do that. Don’t know if it’ll sink in, but…”

“He does have a hard head, doesn’t he?” Another smiling voice, this one fond like only Ray could be.

Those fingers were still sifting through his hair, caring gently expressed. Apparently it was allowed when he wasn’t supposed to be aware of it. “Yes, thank God.”

And his pillow shifted slightly under his head. It felt oddly like muscle and bone for a moment.

“I guess all we can do in the meantime is look out for him.” Ray, more seriously.

“Like he does for us, huh? And take care of him when he’s off his feet.”

“Temporarily suspended chores are a given. We all know how painful broken ribs can be.”

Sounds of pained pity all around.

“But I…I didn’t just mean that. Maybe he needs some more reassurance. You know, that we’re here and we’re not going away.”

Oh, man, trust Ray. The lump was getting hard to swallow past.

“I think the best thing for Peter is business as usual, including all the teasing and jokes he can bear. Outright kindness is difficult for him to accept, but he knows the truth, that he is loved, just as we know the truth about him, that he loves and worries about us.”

Operating instructions, a la Egon. Handle with care, and a heavy dollop of humor to disguise the deeper feelings.

Maybe blunt wasn’t always bad.

“I guess you’re right.”

“Sounds good to me.”

A quiet pause. The hand on his head had moved down to stroke the hair at the nape of his neck, just above a bruise. Oddly enough, it seemed to take the ache with it.

“How much longer you think he’s gonna be asleep?”

“A while longer, Ray. Perhaps if the two of you could manage dinner, he might be roused by the smell of the food.”

“Can do, m’man. Looks like you’re a little tied down there, anyway.” A chuckle.

Egon’s rueful voice. “He does seem to have made himself comfortable.”

Another slight shift. A pillow lay between him and a leg. Egon’s leg, no doubt. Warm and propping him up just enough: no wonder it had been so comfortable. Nor did Egon seem in a hurry to get it back.

Footsteps and more distant murmurs, and then a vague movement, Egon’s voice suddenly in his ear, patient and soothing. “Sleep, Peter. We’ll wake you for dinner.”

There would be no point in asking how long Egon had known, or in trying to tell him he couldn’t have roused if he wanted to. His body still didn’t want to cooperate, heavy and drowsy and feeling just enough not his that he might have wondered if he were still asleep. But it hadn’t been a dream. He was comfortably, embarrassedly, warmly sure of that.

And more touched than he would have admitted and more contented than he could have expressed, Peter Venkman sank back into peaceful sleep.

The End


End file.
